So Soft Is the Dart
by Hotel Montana
Summary: It wasn’t love at first sight, that’s for certain.


_Since I suffer with pleasure, why should I complain,  
Or grieve at my Fate, when I know 'tis in vain?  
Yet so pleasing the Pain, so soft is the Dart,  
That at once it both wounds me, and tickles my Heart._

- Henry Purcell, "The Fairy Queen"

It wasn't love at first sight, that's for certain. Love at first sight was a fairy story for little children and grown-ups who didn't know enough about the world to know any better. Besides, the first time he saw her, he was much too busy blowing things up to fall in love.

It wasn't love at second sight, either. When he discovered her in the flat, he was still far too self-involved--the newness of the regeneration, and trying to figure out just what kind of man he'd become, and what had become of the man who'd let his own people burn. There wasn't room, right then, for an inquisitive girl with brown eyes too big for her face.

It wasn't after they crashed through her table, when she was lying, surprised and breathless and soft, on him. It wasn't when she followed him down the stairway, picking at him like a crow for information. It wasn't when she thought to evacuate the restaurant, when plastic Mickey was running amok, or when she stood in the TARDIS, her eyes growing larger and impossibly larger. It wasn't when she noticed what he didn't, or when they ran, hand-in-hand.

It wasn't any of those.

It may have been when she swung down on the chain, her hair flying behind her like a cape, and saved him like she knew what she was doing, like she'd done the whole hero bit before. But that may have just been relief at being alive, with a hollow core of disappointment that he hadn't been able to save the Nestene Consciousness like Rose saved him.

Or it may have been when they ate chips together, that first time. They shared a portion and ate it leaning over a rickety, greasy table. The Doctor told Rose stories, and she challenged him to a chip duel, and every time they reached in at the same moment, their hands brushing, he felt a little thrill, deep in his gut. But that may have just been indigestion, which he swore he never got, but honestly, fried foods gave him the rumbles something fierce, and chips were the worst. It turned out that Time Lord physiology, miraculous though it might be, was rather intolerant of potatoes.

It may have been when she took his hand, deep in that cellar in 19th century Cardiff, lacing her fingers up with his, and swearing that if they were going to die, they would die fighting and die together. But that may have just been the thrill of incipient battle, the proximity of the creatures pressing at the gate, and lightheadedness from the gas with which Dickens was flooding the house.

It may have been when she told him to do whatever he needed to save the Earth from the greedy machinations of the Slitheen, even if it meant giving up her own life. It may have been that she trusted him enough to see her through in once piece. It may have been that, even with that trust, she still fought and thought, and wouldn't let go of her bulldog's grip on life for even a moment. It may have been her bruised hand in his. It may have been the enormity of the bag she packed. It may have been the wonder and the joy in her voice when she talked about all the universe had to offer.

Or it may have just been one ordinary and extraordinary afternoon on Lanthanides, the planet's multi-colored suns making everything jewel-hued and brilliant.

They were there for one reason alone--to find and pick a moka-moka root. The moka-moka was not rare, exactly--other than growing only on Lanthanides, of course--but it was a burrowing plant, and extraordinarily difficult to find top-growing. They spent some time wandering through a hilly wood before the Doctor spotted wisp-soft green stalks poking up through a patch of blanketing, fuzzy ferns.

Rose watched as he knelt on the ground, yanking at the moka-moka, not noticing that he wasn't getting anywhere with it. It wasn't coming out of the ground, and he didn't realize, because he was thinking, always thinking, thinking about the transgression loop cylinder on the TARDIS, and how he was going to need to pick up a new refractor for it, but he could only find those on Unquadnilium, and wouldn't it be nice to show Rose the Millennium Star on Untriennium 6, which was right next to Unquadnilium, spatially speaking, though not temporally, as the Millennium Star wouldn't happen until after that extraordinarily bloody coup that demolished the market economy on Unquadnilium, and wouldn't that be something to see, though Rose'd probably hate it, so that was right out, and...

"You're holding on too tight," Rose said, breaking into his internal babble.

"I...," he began. "What?"

"Too tight," she repeated, gesturing at the mangled stalks, clenched in his fist. "Here. Like this."

Rose crouched beside him, her fingers brushing his hand and dusting some of the dirt off, as she took the greens from him. She held them with a light, delicate touch, pulling first one way and then another, until the root gave way with a muted ripping sound. She held up the dark pink root, shaking dirt off of it with a triumphant swishing.

Balancing on the balls of her feet, she leaned on his knee. He could feel her warmth, even through his trousers. The Doctor looked at Rose as though she'd performed a miracle.

"Community garden project," she said as explanation. "When I was little. Never really worked--people'd go out and get pissed and think it a laugh to trample it--but I liked it while it lasted. It was," she lifted up the plant, examining it, "different from what I was used to. And I learnt a few things. Like, you got to be gentle when you're picking up a root, or you won't get it at all. You'll only pull the tops off, leaving the part you want in the ground."

She spoke blithely, without a trace of earnestness, like she often did when saying the most significant things.

"Just when I think I know everything there is to know," the Doctor said, leaning in closer to her under the guise of studying the root.

"You realize you don't know nothing at all," Rose finished with a nod. "I know that feeling, alright."

It wasn't until much later, when he was sitting on a London rooftop with a woman in a wedding gown, that he wondered if Rose knew he hadn't been talking about horticulture.

He'd hardly known it himself, at the time.

And it was just when he was getting used to her hot elbow on his knee, that Rose stood, offering him a hand up, too. He took it, and didn't let go. They walked hand-in-hand back to the TARDIS. She swung the moka-moka by the stalk and chattered about the garden, and Mickey's uncanny ability to murder even a fool-proof cactus, and Jackie's despair when Rose came home filthy every night. Later, he made the tea, and she was delighted by the brilliant pink color, like he'd thought she'd be. She declared that it tasted like a cross between Darjeeling and Nutella, and he said something about humans always trying to put new experiences in a box, and she gave his shin a hard kick under the table. He let out an exaggerated yelp and said it was like being kicked by a mule--and not the Earth kind, either. More like the battle mules they bred on Old Luxe, and Rose returned a snide comment about Time Lords always trying to put new experiences in a box, and they laughed. Oh, they laughed.

They used up the last of the milk on the moka-moka tea. Instead of Unquadnilium or Untriennium 6, they went back to Earth to pick some up, landing smack in the middle of the Blitz.

And that was that. 


End file.
